here i am straight up losing my mind
by Asradiantasthesun
Summary: (or the times when she heard it and the times when he didn't)


_here i am straight up losing my mind_

_(or the times when she heard it and the times when he didn't)_

1.

You are both laying in his bed, tangled in sheets; window is wide open and cold breeze is playing with white curtains, the red numbers on electronic clock on his bedside table are 3 and 3 and one more 3

( you make a wish)

And he is pressing his lips to the exposed skin on your shoulder, thinking you're asleep

( you're not, how could you be) and then he's tracing letters on your back, writing in cursive these three words again and again and then he says them out loud, but not aloud enough.

His voice is so quiet, not even a whisper, something less, something more; his words turn your world all around and stop it and then make it go on again. You freeze in that moment; heart skips a beat ( or two) for a second and you open your eyes to look at him, but his are closed and

(_damn_)

Did you imagine this?

Did he really said that, did he really said that?

(the question is; do you want him to said that)

Maybe you really do love him, maybe you really love him like you've never loved anyone before but-

(not yet) so you don't say a word.

You try to fall asleep

(you fail)

2.

You're going down the stairs in your tight, black dress with your hair falling loosely on your back and cheeks blushed and he is looking at you as if you hung the stars and the moon and whole vast, endless universe. (no one has ever looked at you like that before)

_It's beautiful_.

You give him your hand and he hands you a corsage made out of small, pink roses and all you can think of is how different it is from the last time he was taking you to prom; how perfectly you fit together, how natural it feels to have your fingers tangled with his. Your mum is all smiles and giggles; she's running around, taking tons of photos ( she would never do it when you were with Jackson) talking some nonsenses and you don't even try to listen to her; you know Stiles does, though; out of politeness, out of being a gentleman. But judging from the way his eyes are constantly locked on your lips, on your neck and hair, he's failing miserably

( and falling, he's falling).

You want to laugh; it's hilarious how after everything he still thinks it's unbelievable that you are now there, together at last.

These whole night is a dream, it's magic; your best friend glances at you over her first love's shoulder and you smile to her. Stiles is doing some kind of bizarre movements on the dance floor and you can't stop laughing

( it's spinning around, spinning around you ; the world; how; how can you be so happy)

And when you do stop laughing you take him by the hand and then you dance

And the music is sweet, it leaves your heart aching, your blood raging in your veins

( I'm an atom in the sea of nothing waiting for another to collide)

He kisses the top of your head, his hand is warm on the small of your back and then you hear it.

You stop breathing and you want to look at him, you want to see his face

( did he really say what you think he said)

(or: do you really want him to say what you think he just said)

But then the song ends and Scott suddenly approaches you; he starts talking about last year and wow guys, who would have thought and et cetera, and you look at Stiles, nod your head and smile . This night is perfect; goodnight moon bright and perfectly round on the black velvet sky and maybe ( definitely) you love him like you've never loved before but you don't want-

Not yet

So you don't say a word.

3.

Winter moon is big and beautiful; it has been never, ever snowing on Christmas ( not in California) but right now it's Christmas Day (or more specifically- Christmas evening), you are still in California and damn, _it's snowing_.

You are watching it from behind the window in McCalls living room; white, delicate snowflakes falling gracefully to the ground, covering grass, street and Stiles' Jeep standing on the driveway and Scott's motorcycle parked right beside it. It's almost painful how enchanting it is.

The sudden burst of laughter distracts you from admiring the view and you turn around to check out what's going on. Allison's sitting on the Scott's lap, her dimples showing as she tries to stop shaking and Scott's grinning like an idiot and Sheriff is- is he _blushing_? Whoa- while Melissa is laughing out loud with her hands pressed to her stomach. You smile, seeing Derek who thinks he's so sneaky, trying to steal the last chocolate brownie, but Cora's faster and she takes the biggest bite right in front of his eyes, then smiles and leaves half of the cookie for him. Kira and Malia are playing chess and the werecoyote is looking at the board, confusion written on her face. But Kira doesn't seem annoyed; her eyes are bright as she gently takes Malia's hand and places black queen near the king.

You compare fragile snowflakes on the dark sky with your friends

(your family)

(_your pack_)

And you decide that maybe, just maybe, snowflakes aren't worth _so much_ admiration. After all there are other equally beautiful things.

You are not likely to be caught off guard- when you are the only one among your group of friends without claws or super strength or even a nice, big gun, you learn to be cautious- but Stiles manages to do that. You giggle (terrible, girlish giggle) when he wraps his arms around you and kisses your neck. You don't have heels on so you rest your head comfortable on his chest and you let yourself go, just like that. These rare moments of peace are everything you need in the times of horror; of blood and monsters and retribution.

His warm breath caresses your skin as you both watch Allison and Scott and Sheriff and Melissa and Derek and Braeden and Cora and Isaac and Kira and you don't even have to look at his face to know exactly what his thinking

( I can't believe it)

( we're home)

( your thoughts echo each other like whispers in the vast cave)

And there it is

Deep, beautiful voice, the voice that means laugh and warmth and comfort

You stiffen.

Did he really said that?

Do you-

(this time, the answer comes unexpectedly slow, it lingers in the air, haunting you-

Do you want him to-)

You do love him, you know this for sure, but do you want him to -( do you want him to say it?)

Before you can react, say something, do something, you feel his lips on your cheeks and he leaves you to sit beside his father, who is still furiously blushing.

He doesn't even look at you.

You wonder if you imagined it all

( you don't think so, though)

But you don't know what to do, what to say-

So you don't say a word.

4.

It's a nightmare.

It's blood everywhere, smeared on the concrete walls, spoiling the grass and making it crimson instead of green; drops of blood sparkling on the leaves of the dandelion leaves like a morbid morning dew. You are standing still, nails digging into your palms, tearing apart your own skin and flesh.

You have nothing on but the oversized t-shirt you stole from Stiles and shorts; it's cold outside and you are freezing and you're shaking

(however, you don't think that's because of the weather or because of your lack of clothing)

You suspect it has more in common with the fact that you can't even recognize if the bodies piled up in front of your eyes are female or male.

You are strangely calm, it's more like your body is fully aware of all this- _this massacre_, but your mind is still trying to process that, to analyze and understand, only there's nothing to analyze anymore.

Only flesh

(only blood)

You open your mouth and scream until it's quiet around you; until there are no more whispers singing to you songs about death and destruction until there's not more aching and coldness and fear; you scream and scream and scream and you can't stop ( you don't know how)

Lydia, Lydia please, stop, please

His voice is not a whisper; it's louder, it's bright and it shakes you out of your deliria. He gently wraps his arms around you, pressing your head to his chest and slowly caressing your hair

It's okay now, it's okay

No it's not – you want to say, but you discover that you can't. Your throat is one tube of raw, bloody flesh and you cough constantly because god, it hurts. You notice Scott standing beside you. He's frowning, his eyes locked on the corpses and grass and you and you can see he's worried.

You want to assure him you're fine, but then again you can't

(what's more: you're not)

Stiles wants to take you home, but you can't be alone, not right now; not, when you are still shaking and there's still blood on your palms. So he takes you to his house, let's you take long, boiling shower and waits for you in the bedroom. You rather collapse on the bed than sit down and you are immediately wrapped in a green blanket. Stiles lays beside you; he's worried, it's so obvious.

Lydia, it's fine now. You'll be fine.

He kisses your chuckles and your bruised, cut palms and each of your fingers and then you close your eyes and you hear it loud and clear, your name and three words, three words, eight letters and an infinity beyond.

You wanted to hear it so bad.

But your response gets stuck in your wounded throat and it has no way out. You open your mouth and nothing comes out and suddenly you're crying.

Stiles gives you a sad smile and hugs you

Hey, it's okay , he says.

(you know it's not)(not for him)(and not for you)

But you can't. You just can't.

So you don't say a word

(You kiss him instead)

5.

How sick is that, how sickingly funny, what kind of god has a sense of humor that twisted, you wonder pressing your hands to his chest and trying to stop blood from flowing, flowing and staining your hands, your dress his shirt, god damnit no, please _no_

An endless silence between each beat of his heart and an infinite gap between each of his breaths; it's more like he's desperately clutching onto life than fighting for it.

His head is on your laps and you want to run your fingers through his messy hair, but you are more focused on pressing your hands to the red hole in his chest , too focused on stopping his spirit from draining out of his tormented body-

You are shaking and his is shaking and you hear Ally calling for the ambulance; her voice calm and cold in the summer air, but her hands are shaking too and you suspect if Scott was there he would probably also shake like an epileptic.

Damn this, Scott, where are you-

(why aren't you here, why why please tell me)

Lydia-

Shh, don't talk, don't it'll be okay, just hold on, please

( sweet nonsenses she's saying with a stone stuck in her throat and tears running down her face; all of those sweet meaningless nonsenses people use when they're hopeless and useless and the can do nothing but)

(nothing but saying nonsenses)

Please Stiles, don't, don't, they will be there soon, Scott will be there soon, just don't.

Lyds. Please.

(please please and please shaken up and twisted, more like a prayer than plea)

Blood drowns your hands and his head is heavy on your laps, his eyelids are twitching ( oh god no, I beg you)

Allison sobs and behind your back is a wreck of Stiles' most precious possession; his Jeep damaged beyond repair, a sad, burning shell of the car they all loved. Allison sobs louder, clutching her fingers on your shoulder and you keep on pressing as the blood keeps flowing.

And then his eyes close and he whispers to you the thing you wanted to hear but at the same time you didn't

(not like that not here not now no)

And you don't even have a chance to say four words eleven letters which mean peace because he's gone just like that-

Too late, too damn too late ( all you do is find the bodies)

And there's nothing left to say now; so you don't say a word you just keep on pressing and you weep and you scream and you wail but you don't say a word

6.

You are woken up by somebody banging on the door like a maniac.

You dream about something really nice; like beach-chocolate-ice-creams-no-school-tomorrow kind of nice- and it's 2 am and you are exhausted and your bed is warm and you really, really don't want to get up but you know it may be something important and you probably should.

So you sigh, push the covers on the floor and go down the stairs. Floor is creaking under your bare feet and this impossibly annoying person is still banging, on and on, non – stopping for even a second.

Okay, I'm opening, I'm opening- you mumble, trying to find the key which would fit the keyhole and then you are opening, without even checking out who's that

( you should probably do it and normally you would , but it's freaking middle of the night you're tired and irritated and you just want to come back to bed)

Doors open and before you can even say something, react somehow, Lydia throws her arms around you and buries her head in the fabric of your shirt, shaking violently.

Suddenly you're wide awake.

You see no point in asking her what have happened; she's too shaken up to answer you anyway, barefoot with her hair tangled and cheeks stained with salty traces of tears. You wonder if it's a banshee matter or if it's something else, but you don't ask.

You let her sob instead, gently caressing her back and holding her close till she's calm. You let her go and she takes one deep breath and bites on her lip.

I feel like I can use a cup of tea. How about you?

You ask her gently and she nods her head and then follows you to the kitchen. You don't turn on the light and the darkness is your friend tonight; it covers you both like a warm blanket, soothing your skin and Lydia's wet cheeks.

She sits down on the counter, he legs hanging loosely and you watch her as you prepare the tea: she looks like a goddess and damn, you love her most when she's like that. Green eyes and wild curls no make- up, no heels, no fancy clothes- her raw , unquestionable beauty speaking for itself.

You hand her a cup and sit right beside her, wrapping one arm around her waist as you both look out of the window, watching moon and stars. She takes one sip and then another and then she puts the cup on the counter beside her and turns her head to face you. She's so near; you can see tiny crinkles around her eyes from smiling and crying and you could count all of the nearly invisible freckles splattered on her blushed cheeks.

I love you.

(w-)

(what)

(did she said what you-)

She says it unafraid, unashamed; loud and clear, breaking the silence of the night, making your hear skip a beat (or two) and you blood boiling in your veins.

You open your mouth and you want to say something (anything) but you just can't; all of the words get stuck in your throat.

I just wanted you to know. To know, that I love you, because ,well, I do. And I've realized that you need to know this. I want you to know this, I… I'm babbling, I'm sorry-

She looks the other way now, her cheeks suddenly blushed as if she was processing the things she has just said. You can do nothing, but love her, you can do nothing but adore her, you can do nothing _but I can't believe this, I can't believe this. _

She is the spark the lit up you word, your dream then and now. What is a person supposed to do, when a dream comes true right in front of their eyes?

You gently raise her chin up and look into her eyes

(Green like an infinite sea upon which you flow)

(You're the one that I want)

_(You're the one that I wanted to find_)

I love you

You say and this time, it's not quiet nor it's rushed and it's not ''too'' there because you're no saying this because she said it first. You say it like a prayer and maybe that's exactly what it is too you.

( to the both of you)

Her face light up and you take her face in your hands and you kiss her.

And that's the end of some part your story, but it feels so much like a beginning.

Green eyes, you're the one that I wanted to find.


End file.
